


For Memories to Come

by EmeraldSage



Series: The Holiday Collection [22]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Celebrations, Flashbacks, M/M, Maybe some Misinformation?, Not all that sure, Prompt Day 22: Winter Solstice/Yule, RusAmeHoliday, Winter Solstice, Yule, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 02:09:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8949670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: RusAme Holiday Prompt #22: Winter Solstice/Yule
*I apologize for any inaccuracies in the portrayal of this holiday!  I have never celebrated Yule, so I apologize in advance if I've written something incorrect.  Please correct me if I'm wrong!





	

**Author's Note:**

> All the information in this fanfic is based off of Internet research and is potentially incorrect. I don’t know too much about Yule, save for the general knowledge, and only the bare bones of the Winter Solstice, so most of my knowledge comes from brief research. If I’m wrong please correct me! Thank you and Enjoy!

            Evergreen boughs were lightly drawn through the house, framing the windows delicately, brought together with little twists of holly and sprigs of mistletoe. Ivy twined along the front door’s wreath. Boughs of yew, for the ending of the year, silver fir, for the solstice day and the rebirth of the year, and birch, for new beginnings, were gently woven into the evergreen wreaths that found their home on walls and wooden doors, and even some in windows, high enough that the candle posed no true threat.

            _He giggled, stumbling into his guardian’s leg and wrapping himself around the hapless limb to keep himself from falling backwards onto his rear. He buried his small face into the man’s plush leather breeches, neatly avoiding the chilly breach buckle that would’ve made a mark on his soft skin. He heard his guardian chuckle, and felt a callous palm settle itself atop the soft, silky golden crown he bore. He peered up through between golden locks and smiled an eye smile at the green eyes watching him fondly. That callous hand drew through his messy locks, pausing every few seconds as it encountered the boughs and leaves he’d woven through his hair._

_Another chuckle, warm hands and a soft smile, “My little Yule child,” that deep voice said, “Will you stay up to greet the sun, then, little one?”_

_A beam and an enthusiastic nod was the answer, and it was enough; his guardian needed no more than that._

            There was a candle in every window – good old Yankee’s candles, with their glass jars that were better shields against potential fires than any old open candle would’ve been – and the light they gave off glinted in the twilight. They were small, the mini candles, settled gently upon the window’s ledge. They would burn all night if he let them, though; he knew that from experience. They would scent the house lightly of warm bread and pine, something safe to fill the dwelling and call to all the others who would seek its shelter tonight.

            In addition, there was warm bread baking in the oven. Loaves of homemade bread were being baked in the modern convection oven. The bread had been lovingly kneaded in the early hours of the morning, while the maker had been humming a soft blessing in his song as he crafted the dough.

            All the ingredients had been harvested organically, and personally. Every year – though he was upset he couldn’t do so more often – he went out to the fields of wheat he knew by heart, who knew him for what he was, and harvested. He had a small patch of land that he cared for, as much as a busy nation could, and come harvest season, he would do what he could for the crop that came in. The wheat had been stored, then taken to the mill to be ground into flour, before he finally brought it home to make bread. The eggs had, likewise, been taken from a well cared for chicken coup. The margarine – he’d used proper butter this time – he had churned himself, enjoying himself as he’d immersed himself in memories of the days he’d had company while he did his tasks.

            Most of the ingredients – a hint of brown sugar, a teaspoon of salt, among other things – had been bought, though. Organic when he could, home grown when he wasn’t sure. As much as he would like to do more, there just wasn’t time anymore.

            The bread scented the air enticingly, kept warm in its spot in the oven. It wafted through the kitchen, where the signs of its crafting had strewn themselves upon the countertops and every available surface in a messy, haphazard style.

            _His eyes gleamed, head tilting curiously as he studied the kitchen, where his guardian had left bread baking earlier in the afternoon. Was it supposed to be emitting what looked like a toxic cloud of poisonous black smoke? He was too young to know._

_Judging by his uncle’s curses, it wasn’t supposed to. He made a note of that diligently, despite what his guardian mumbled derisively later on as he was carried towards the festivities._

            There was an evergreen tree situated just besides the hearth, in the corner facing the street-side window in the living room. For nearly a month, it was decorated festively, in garlands of popcorn, silver and golden tinsel, ornaments of every color, shape and size, and a lot of red and green denoting the holiday for which it represented. In the days of his Yule celebration, where only he and one other had access to his home, those decorations vanished. In their place were garlands of holly, ivy, and mistletoe, wrapped lovingly around boughs of evergreen. Small pieces of birch, yew, and silver fir – like those wrapped around the windows – found themselves entwined within the garlands. Gently, lovingly crafted ornaments shaded in gold and bronze, denoting the sun and all its associations, were settled in the delicate, deceptively strong branches. Ash was sprinkled liberally around the tree and smudged onto its base. It also, somehow, always ended up on his face.

            _A hand brushed against his face, tsking slightly as his chin was tilted up to face the exasperated Empire. He pouted slightly as a gloved hand tried to wipe the ash he’d dusted across his face – more like he’d face planted into the dirty old hearth before it had a chance to be cleaned anew for Yule – and beamed when the hand settled on his crown exasperated._

_“When did you get into an ash pile, hmm?” his guardian’s voice murmured as he was lifted up, “Well, I suppose you can still help with the tree…”_

_A fistful of ash in his hands, covered in soot from the Yule fire, he grinned mischievously, and heard his guardian groan._

            The crowning jewel of his Yule decorations, though, was the Yule log situated in the hearth, unlit as of now. It had been the one thing his partner had persuaded him to do. Heavy hands and a gentle violet stare had convinced him to parcel the task out to him. It was hard, in the first years they’d celebrated together; Yule had been something he had become used to doing all on his own. Having someone else slip into his celebrations and take over some of the things he loved to do? It had taken some getting used to, but it had become routine now. Even in the years where they had been at odds, he had woken on the Solstice Eve to find a freshly harvested tree on his porch and a Yule log in his dusted hearth. Every year then, the bread he had made fresh the night before would vanish mysteriously in the time it took for the tree and log to appear.

            His lips quirked, those had been interesting to explain to his superiors.

            _“Are you ready, poppet?” his guardian’s warm voice asked, slightly anxious. But he wasn’t nervous! It was the first time big brother had included him in the Yule ceremonies, and he wanted to make sure the elder never regretted it. He was slightly nervous, though, about when all the lights would go off. He had gotten used to living by moonlight and starlight ever since he’d been born, and had no problem with the dark; but tonight, of all nights, was cloudy, and with all the torches out, he couldn’t help but worry…._

_A flare went up, and all the torches were put out in one swift movement. Before he could startle, a gentle hand settled on his crown, barely avoiding the ivy wreath his guardian had made him._

_He blinked, one moment swiftly slipping into two, before he realized the world was **glowing**. He could see the slight gleam of the fairies that his guardian called friends, and the glimmer of starlight hidden just out of sight. The world seemed to light up around him, and suddenly, it was like all his life he’d been **blind** , because surely, nothing could compare to…_

_The Yule Log was set aflame with the touch of a torch, his heart soared, and even as young as he was, he knew this would be something he would treasure forever._

            A hand brushed against his face gently, and he turned into the caress. He could feel the smile twisting his companion’s lips as they were pressed to the back of his golden crown. He could feel the smooth strokes of a hand in his hair, nearly unseating the ivy crown he had woven and worn this morning; just as he had every Yule he’d celebrated himself. He could feel the ash dusting his cheeks and forehead as he nuzzled against his partner, curling in close.

            Their lips met under the initial, match-lit flare of the Yule log, burning brightly, proudly, in his hearth, as all the other lights in the house went out at once the moment the sun had set. They wrapped heart and soul together in the flare of hearth light, and immersed themselves in each other, patiently, passionately waiting for the rebirth of dawn, where the cycle would begin again.

            And when morning light dawned anew, and he twined a birch’s bough through his ivy crown, amongst his holly wreaths, and within the branches of his evergreen tree, they would shed the burden of the year that had passed, embracing its wisdom and turning away from its spite.

            All they would have, then, was the blessing for the memories to come.

**Author's Note:**

> It’s like a contrast: the memories of the past are the loving childhood he spent with England, who taught him the traditions of Yule that he’d held so dear. And even though he never overtly practiced after he broke from the Empire, it was one of the few things he held close to him. The memories of the present are a representation of how, despite the fact that he held memories close to him, he was ready to make new ones


End file.
